Poetic Friday: “Puppet-Maker,” Charles Simic

In his fear of solitude, he made us.  
Fearing eternity, he gave us time.
I hear his white cane thumping
Up and down the hall.

I expect neighbors to complain, but no.
The little girl who sobbed
When her daddy crawled into her bed
Is quiet now.  

It’s quarter to two.
On this street of darkened pawnshops,
Welfare hotels and tenements,
One or two ragged puppets are awake.

—

Okay, this poem is wonderful and disgusting. I feel like each stanza is from one man’s perspective as he turns three different ways. The first stanza is about a slightly anthropomorphized god. The second stanza’s seems as if we’re still in the same moment, but we’ve switched to what a very particular moment in a very particular place looks like; this is the world god gave us that is filled with terrible things. The final stanza, again, begins as if we’re in the same moment with the girl and then gives us a wider view of the night instead. We see the dark street, and the few of us who are still awake. Simic, I feel, makes the argument that there is no free-will, we’re all puppets; he makes this argument without being heavy-handed, which I appreciate. This is a small, small poem but there’s a lot packed into it.